Mar 24
1 min read
The Cries of Childhood
What I could not see,
even during slow walks through backyards,
was the wrath.
I heard shrill sounds travel
through kitchen window cracks
while I passed each neighbor’s house,
sounds I recognized as shattering ceramic,
smashed dinner plates, perhaps.
But I, a boy of ten,
assumed it was accidental,
for I had broken a few things by then
and never meant to.
I could not comprehend why men
would break things on purpose,
the piercing roars of fury…
